


The Scent of Your Name (Will Always Remind Me of You)

by GALRAAKEITH



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Flowers, Language of Flowers, M/M, Pining, Reincarnation, eros is matt holt, fighting as flirting, hyacinthus au, lotor baby im so sorry, no beta we die like men, sort of ig??, vague percy jackson elements, you deserve better than what i gave you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 21:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16879233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GALRAAKEITH/pseuds/GALRAAKEITH
Summary: in which lance is the god apollo, keith is a not-quite mortal prince, and lotor is the god zephyros. a legend of hyacinthus au.





	The Scent of Your Name (Will Always Remind Me of You)

**Author's Note:**

> for those of you who are familiar with greek mythology/this myth, you know whats coming. for those who don't....... well, heed the tags my friends  
> uh, extreme liberties taken with certain details about the myth/characters in general (bc lets be real, there's so many versions/translations of greek myths out there, that it's basically impossible to be 100% correct sometimes). also, sorry uncle rick, but i borrowed ur whole weapons' metal system from pjo. ilu <3\.   
> this is far from my first voltron fic, but it's the first one i've ever completed! so please be gentle with me lol there's a lot of things i could have/should have expanded on, but i figured i'd let canon sort of fill in the blanks on certain details/things i mention. also this is unbetaed and mainly unedited so sorry if there's like, egregious errors or anything lol

_ The Scent of Your Name _ (Will Always Remind Me of You) || a Hyacinthus AU

 

Apollon never meant for this to happen. He may have been a god and may not have understood humanity fully, causing him to be cruel on occasion, but this was never his intention. Never this. Yet, as the Fates would have it, here he was. Kneeling on the ground, crooning mournfully over the dead body of his human lover as blood stained the ground a damning erythros.

 

May the gods curse Zephyros.

 

May the gods curse the Fates.

 

But such was the tragedy of being a god. Apollon had loved Hyakinthos, as much as a god could love a mortal, and now he was  _ gone. _

 

ὑάκινθος

 

Apollon, as a god, had many forms. He could shift his appearance on a whim, taking whatever form pleased him best at the moment. And while some may call him vain for it, none of the forms he took were ugly or grotesque—all were beautiful. The mortals fawned over him whenever he deigned to leave Olympus or Delphi. Yet—and Apollon both laughed and wept at this—they could never see him at his most beautiful. Apollon’s godly form was truly something to be beheld, shining bright with golden light, but should any mortal lay eyes on him in it, they would perish. Alas, this was just further proof for the rest of the gods that resided in Olympus that mortals weren’t worthy of much; while Apollon didn’t necessarily disagree with them, he found the mortals enchanting anyway.

 

Besides his godly form, this one had to perhaps be one of his favorites. Long, wiry limbs with toned muscles in a sun kissed bronze; skin as smooth and dewy as rose petals in the early morning; and eyes bluer than the Aegean Sea—Apollon was beautiful. He’d argue for the title of the most beautiful but Apollon knew Aphrodite wouldn’t hesitate to exact her revenge on him.

 

But standing here right now, strolling through a field filled with gloxinias and white flowers that Apollon has no name for yet, he sees perhaps the most beautiful person in existence.

 

The stranger—Apollon can’t decide whether to call him pretty boy or tough guy, both fit him well—is training with a sword by his lonesome. He’s tall, though Apollon can’t approximate if he’s taller or shorter than himself from where he stands, and his lithe muscles ripple under his skin as he moves. It’s elegant, the way he moves with a blade in his hand. So much more beautiful than how Ares fights. His hair is an inky black, a sharp contrast to the cream of his skin, and while it’s pulled back into a braid that Apollon guesses is to help the heat, strands of it move in front of his face, obscuring his eyes.

 

Apollon steps forward, accidentally crushing some hemlock under his feet— _ oops, sorry Demeter—, _ to get a better look.

 

He doesn’t go unnoticed though. The swordsman turns to him, and assumes a defensive stance, on edge. Now that he’s up closer, Apollon can see the way his mouth is set in a determined line, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. His eyes are as sharp as the bones of his face, and are the indescribable color of blue violets that Apollon has spent so many hours arguing with his sister over.

 

The swordsman stops him before Apollon can come any closer, by speaking. “Who are you?” he asks, in a voice just shy of being considered husky. It makes Apollon shiver in desire anyway.

 

But Apollon isn’t really used to being unrecognized, and his accustomization to being fawned over and worshipped leaves him feeling indignant.

 

“’Who am I?’ Who are  _ you _ ?! This is my field!”

 

The swordsman’s brows furrow and his mouth turns down. “How is this  _ your _ field? No one owns this land.”

 

Apollon sputters in frustration. “I’m a god! I come here all the time!” And he does—Apollon frequents this field quite often—er, often in godly terms at least. He’s not actually sure how many years have passed for the mortals since he’s been down here last.

 

The man snorts. “A god? Yeah, right. And I’m a hippocampus.”

 

“I’m Apollon! You know, god of the sun, music, archery, prophecy, etcetera etcetera? One of the 12 Olympians?”

 

An eyebrow raised silently in disbelief is the only response he gets.

 

Apollon sighs, realizing that no matter what he says, the swordsman won’t believe him. And he was lectured just the other day by Zeus about using his powers for foolish reasons, so Apollon can’t show off right now to prove himself.

 

“Fine. Just call me Lance then,” he says grudgingly, not wanting to accept defeat.

 

The swordsman nods to himself, seeming to find that an acceptable answer. “My name is Hyakinthos. But call me Keith.”

 

“Alright then,  _ Keith _ —if that's even your real name—”

 

“I  _ just  _ told you it—”

 

“What are you doing out here?”

 

Keith gives him a flat, unyielding stare. “What did it  _ look _ like I was doing.”

 

“Well, besides being stabby and all things unpoetic, brooding, probably. Also, your skill in making questions sound like statements is  _ unnerving. _ ”

 

Keith's face screws up in confusion. “I don't think stabby is a word. And I don't brood!”

 

“Mmhmm, sure you don't. That's what all the brooders say. It's okay though—it adds to the tall, dark, and handsome thing you've got going on. It makes you seem  _ mysterious, _ ” Lance says, wiggling his fingers. “Stabby is totally a word though! You were fake stabbing things, therefore, you were being stabby!”

 

Keith sighs. “Whatever. That doesn't explain why you're out here though.”

 

At this, Lance holds his lyre up. “I was going to try to compose some tunes.” And while Lance won't use any of his powers to enhance his performance, Zeus's ire still too fresh in his memory, he totally has the ability to charm Keith's toga off anyway. Actually, maybe Lance will use a  _ little _ , just a tiny smidge of his powers to help. No use risking it, since Keith seems like a tough crowd to please. Styx damn Zeus.

 

Lance takes a calming breath and lets the faintest trickle of his powers flow from his fingers as he pulls them across the lyre’s strings. He isn't sure what song he's playing exactly, but the melody chimes beautifully anyway. He hums quietly along with the music, potential lyrics not coming to him yet.

 

His eyes are closed as he plays, concentrating fully on creating the melody, and when he opens them, the hum from his last stroke of the lyre fading into the air, Keith's face is filled with awe. He's stunning, and Lance thinks he'd be willing to walk into Tartarus unarmed if he got to make Keith's face look like that everyday. (— _ Well _ , let's not be drastic. There's too many monsters residing in Tartarus that have a vendetta against the gods and Lance doesn't really want to run into Python any time soon. The point  _ is _ is that Keith is beautiful and Lance is a lover of all things beautiful.)

 

Keith is the first to break the silence between them. “That was—you—,” he pauses, then starts again. “You're actually not that bad.”

 

“‘Not that bad’? Excuse you, that was a masterpiece! My next greatest hit—it just needs some lyrics and it'll rival any of the ballads by Orpheus!” Lance is preening internally, despite his words. He gets the feeling that Keith isn't one to be poetic about things.

 

“Oh, well I don't know about that.” Keith's mouth is twitching upwards, fighting back a smirk, and Lance has to fight back his own smirk at the easy banter between them. It's been so long since Lance has actually met a mortal that challenges him—the last one had been a bloodthirsty emperor, and Lance does  _ not _ want to revisit that—, instead of simpering and falling over themselves to please him. It makes Lance almost forget he's actually Apollon, for a moment.

 

“If I'm not so impressive, then what about you, hmm? Mr. I like to stab the air?”

 

“That's not my name—,” Keith cuts himself off, protest dying on his lips. “I can…fight? I don't really do…arts and crafts or whatever.”

 

_Arts and crafts? ARTS AND CRAFTS?!_ _Who does he think he is? I should smite him right here; music is so much more than just ‘_ arts and crafts’ _._

 

But before Lance can do anything he'd come to regret, Keith is moving his blade from where it had been resting at his side. The glint of the sun against the metal gives the sword the appearance like it's on fire. And as Keith moves it through the air, shifting from offensive to defensive stances and back with ease, he's like a god himself. His control over the blade is unparalleled, and he moves with a quiet confidence, quick and fast, yet still graceful. Lance would even dare to say he'd be a match for Ares, though he'll never let Ares hear him say that.

 

There's something peculiar about the blade though.

 

“Your sword—is it made of celestial bronze, by any chance?” 

 

Keith stops, and glances at Lance before studying the weapon in his hand. “I don't know. It was passed down to me from my mother, along with this.” He pulls out another weapon, from a scabbard that’s strapped to his upper leg, and sheathes the bronze one.

 

Lance sucks in a gasp when he sees the second blade.

 

It’s short, compared to Keith’s first weapon, which had been a xiphos of the longer variety. This one appears to be a xyili, just a hare too long to be a dagger. The metal it’s forged from is an iron so dark Lance wouldn’t hesitate to call it black, and the hilt looks to be carved from bone. The sight of it chills Lance’s own.

 

“ _ Stygian iron _ …” he whispers, both in fear and in awe.

 

Celestial bronze is no joke—it’s one of the only metals available that can injure both gods and monsters without harming mortals—but it pales in comparison to Stygian iron. Stygian iron is the only metal known that can slay both immortals and mortals, trapping the souls of its victims in its blade.

 

Lance has only seen a blade made of Stygian iron once before; it had belonged to a child of Hades, and in their hands it was a weapon of death mortals could only dream about on their darkest days. It's the stuff made of nightmares—even monsters trembled before it, preferring to be trapped in Tartarus than in the weapon that had slain them.

 

The fact that Keith has a blade made of this, yet doesn't seem to understand its significance is concerning. Lance doesn't want to believe Keith would ever use it for evil—despite only knowing him for an hour, Lance can't detect any ill intent from Keith—but after his last lover turned out to be a crazed maniac… Well, Lance is a little hesitant to be so trusting from the get go.

 

He does know what the fact that Keith has the ability to wield that xyili means.

 

Keith has the blood of the god of the underworld running through his veins.

 

And the knowledge of that makes him all the more desirable to Lance—it’s like the forbidden fruit from the garden of Persephone. There is beauty in darkness, after all.

 

“Stygian iron?” Keith repeats flatly, but Lance detects his question anyway. But if Keith didn't believe Lance about being Apollon, then there's no chance in Hades that he'll believe Lance about Keith being part god.

 

He shakes his head to rid himself of the clutter that is his thoughts.

 

“Extremely dangerous and an incredible weapon. Be careful who you use it on. And— _ hey! Don't point that thing at me!” _ Lance yelps.

 

“Oh?” Keith chuckles, and smirks. “A shame then.” He resheathes the blade, and the cloud of anxiety that had been surrounding Lance dissipates.

 

Lance sniffs. “Hmph. As if you could mar my flawless skin.”

 

Keith raises a brow. “Is that a challenge? Because I'm not sure you'd survive if it was.”

 

“ _ Oh, _ that's it. Bring it on, tough guy! I can take you any day,” Lance hisses while glaring.

 

And poor Lance. He didn't know what he was getting himself into with that.

 

The two of them arrange to meet the next day at the same field to duel, and then they part ways to return home and prepare.

 

Απόλλων

 

Lance learned the next day that he really shouldn't have challenged Keith. He was able to hold his own in battle for a while, but there's a reason Apollon is the patron saint of archery. He's much more suited to long range weapons than close combat. Their duel—if it can even really be called that—lasted for only a few moments before Keith knocked Lance’s sword out of his hand and had him lying on the ground, Keith’s blade pressed against Lance’s neck. And Lance was already a weak god  man for Keith, but when Keith had said “yield” in that husky tone of his, indigo eyes sparkling with mirth, Lance was even weaker.

 

But Lance was still a god of Olympus, and like all gods, hubris was one of his fatal character flaws. So he challenged Keith yet again, this time to a competition of archery. They met the next day, and then the next, and the next after that. At first they only met because of these competitions, but soon enough the excuses fell away and they instinctively kept meeting at the same meadow almost every day. There was a spark between them and neither could keep away. Lance had lived for millennia and fallen in love a thousand times over but each time felt more intoxicating than the last. He held loosely, understanding that life and love were fleeting for those who in the blink of an eye could see eras rise and fall, but he loved deeply in spite of this. Keith and he hadn’t put a name to their affections, but Lance wouldn’t hesitate to call him his lover anyway, and he knew Keith felt the same.

 

There were some days that Keith couldn’t make it, citing some mysterious “duties” he couldn’t escape, but on those days Lance would arrive to a note attached to a bundle a flowers, apologizing for his absence. And on days Lance couldn’t make it, too busy up on Olympus dealing with familial infighting, he would have a satyr deliver a handwritten poem, with lyrics detailing Keith’s beauty and Lance’s affection.

 

Lance didn’t know where the flowers from Keith came from, but they were beautiful. The first bouquet he had received had been made up of amaryllis, with gorgeous red and white petals that were soft to the touch. Another bundle had been made up of dog rose, with grassy cress to offset the pale pink of the petals. The third bouquet had included καρυόφυλλον (gilliflower) and baby’s breath, and now there are flowers that Lance doesn’t know the name of. The stem is tall and curves into the inside of hanging buds that have purple petals that appear to stand up on a pointed bulb, giving the entire bloom a dart-like appearance (american cowslip).

 

He glances at the note where Keith’s blunt, yet apologetic words lie.

 

**I can’t make it today. I’m sorry.**

 

Lance doesn’t know what these duties are that Keith has, but whenever Keith brings them up, he always speaks in the most begrudging tone, like they’ve somehow wronged him. Lance is curious, and as a god of prophecy, he’s not used to not knowing things. So really, the fact that he’s held back this long from following in the direction Keith leaves in to try to find him is a testament to how much his impulse control has approved. He should be applauded. But Lance should also know better than to stick his nose where it doesn’t truly belong. He has no clue what he’s about to discover.

 

Ζεφυρος

 

Lance really had had no clue what he was going to find. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but certainly not  _ this _ . All things considered, it  _ did _ make sense looking back with hindsight. But still.

 

A fucking  _ castle?! _

 

Originally, when Lance had started going in the general direction he thought Keith came from, there had been nothing around, except for nature and some dryads—”say hello to Pan for me, would you? And  _ hello _ yourself, ladies.” But eventually he came upon some cliffs overlooking the ocean, the scent of the salty sea washing over him. Lance stared at the blue waves crashing over the rocks. It had been too long since he had visited the sea; maybe he should visit his dear old uncle, Poseidon, soon… 

 

The castle was fairly modest in size—or at least the stone structure seemed modest to Lance, who was used to the grandeur of the marble pillars in Olympus. Lance now found himself wandering through its halls, after charming one of the servants into telling him who lived here. An Emperor Kolivan and a Prince Hyakinthos, apparently. The name Kolivan rings a bell, but Lance can’t put a face to it. As for this  _ Prince _ Hyakinthos… well, Lance is more than a little shocked and slightly hurt that Keith didn’t tell him that he was a  _ prince _ . It did make Keith’s skill with the blade and his absences make a bit more sense, but  _ still _ . How could Keith not have told him? In the weeks that they had been meeting, they had learned so much about each other. Keith had told Lance about the disappearance of his mother, and Lance had in turn told him about all the fighting between his family members—he didn’t refer to them by name though, since he knew Keith wouldn’t believe him if he said Artemis, goddess of the moon and the hunt, was his twin sister.

 

The first room Lance finds himself entering appears to be the throne room. It’s large, with round pillars running from the front to the back of the room on both sides. Garlands are wrapped around and strung from them, and there are vases made of red clay displayed on pillar-like stands. Bright flowers fill other vases and it makes Lance wonder what the royal garden must look like.

 

When Lance turns his eyes upon the thrones towards the back of the room, they aren’t empty like he thought they would be.  _ Oops _ . A man with tan skin sits upon the throne, wearing a purple toga with a golden sash, and a laurel of olive leaves rests on top of his head. Hair that had once been dark is greying, almost white in some sections, and tied into a long braid. His face is intimidating, brows thick and furrowed, with a scowl that’s seemingly etched into stone, set above a scruffy patch of hair on his chin. A scar trails down through the center of his right eye, starting above his brow bone and ending just past the corner of his mouth. This must be the emperor, Kolivan.

 

And turns out that,  _ oh _ , Lance does know him.

 

It’s been years, and Kolivan has aged decades while Lance hasn’t aged at all, but he would recognize that scar anywhere. 

 

Keith—who is also wearing a laurel and a purple toga, though his is more indigo and matches his eyes—turns from where he had been standing in front of Kolivan, and Lance can see the moment Keith realizes that yes, Lance actually  _ is _ standing there, thank you very much. His eyes widen comically, almost bugging out of his head, and Lance would laugh if he wasn’t trying to maintain a face of dignity. As it is, he barely manages to stifle a snort and his lips twitch in amusement.

 

Kolivan speaks, and his voice has grown gruffer over the years, though the timbre is just as deep as Lance remembers. “Lord Apollon. As much as it is an honour to have your presence here, why, exactly, are you?”

 

“Aww, Kolivan--or should I say,  _ Emperor _ Kolivan now,” Lance winks, “can't a god visit an old friend?”

 

“When it's you, and it's been almost four decades, then no,” Kolivan deadpans, expression unflinching, but Lance can detect a hint of fond amusement in his tone.

 

Lance gasps dramatically and raises his hand flittingly to his chest, covering his heart, and scrunches his shoulders up. “I’m hurt Kolivan, positively  _ wounded _ . To think, after all I’ve done for you. You know how time passes for us immortals!” He drops the theatrics. “Has it really been 40 years though? Is Antok…?” Lance’s voice trails off, leaving his unasked question hanging in the air.

 

The edge of Kolivan’s mouth twitches. “Four decades and your penchant for theatrics hasn’t changed a bit.” His face smooths back into its normal stern expression, mouth turning down into something somber. “38 years. And Antonk is no longer with us—hasn’t been for 16 years.”

 

Lance softens his voice. “I’m sorry for your loss. And that I was absent when you could have used a friend.”

 

“Yes, well, we cannot change the past, no matter how much we may wish it so. Even you gods cannot undo time. All has not been terrible though. My sister—and the gods know not where she is—gave birth almost two decades ago. This,” Kolivan gestures to Keith, “is my nephew, Prince Hyakinthos.”

 

Keith, whose face looked to be carved out of marble, blank and tense, at the mention of Antok and his mother, scowls at Kolivan’s use of his formal title. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Keith?” He crosses his arms, and his scowl is almost a pout. Lance thinks it’s cute. “And we al—”

 

Lance cuts Keith off by taking his hand and pressing his lips lightly to the back of it as he sweeps into a bow. “It’s an honour to meet you, Prince  _ Hyakinthos _ . Your beauty rivals that of the goddess herself. And anyone related to Kolivan must have the strength of an entire legion.” He winks so that Kolivan can’t see, hoping to convey to Keith to play along. As he stands, he waves his hand, enchanting the harp at the back corner of the room to play itself softly. 

 

It’s nothing Lance hasn’t said to Keith before, but Keith still has a faint flush creeping over his confused face anyway. It makes Lance crow in triumph inwardly—Keith likes to pretend he’s all stoic and unaffected, but he secretly gets flustered easily, and Lance enjoys it every time. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of the soft moments with Keith, where Keith brings down his walls and lets Lance in. Lance treasures those moments with Keith, because he knows the life of a human is fleeting to someone like him. (He just doesn't realize how fleeting his relationship with Keith is yet.)

 

It takes Keith a moment to respond. “I—how do you know my uncle? Why are you here—’ _ Lord Apollon’ _ ?” Lance can hear the unspoken questions:  _ Did you know who I was when we met.? Has everything just been a game to you? _ The confusion and hurt is evident in Keith’s eyes, though the rest of his face remains a perfect mask. 

 

Lance wishes he could reassure him right now, but that will have to wait for later. He desperately hopes that Keith will pick up on the hidden meaning in his words though. “I met Kolivan a long time ago, when he was probably around your age. The scar on his face  _ isn’t _ my fault though, don’t let him tell you otherwise. And I was just exploring the area.”  _ I knew nothing of your relation to Kolivan. I was looking for you. _ “Also, please—there’s no need for formalities.”  _ It was real; it’s all been real. _

 

Lance can’t tell if Keith picks up on what he was trying to convey but Keith’s face relaxes a modicum of an inch, so he’s hopeful. He knows he’ll probably be paying absolute Hell for this later, though.

 

Keith’s eyes shift towards Kolivan. “How would the scar have been your fault? He received it in battle,” he says, warily.

 

Lance snorts. “Oh gods, is  _ that  _ what he told you? Ha! As if it was something that badass. Shame on you Kolivan, I never took you for the type to lie to make yourself look better.” He knows the  _ real _ story, and it was nowhere near that, but it was so hilarious that it got even serious sis Artemis to crack a smile.

 

Kolivan is glaring openly at him now. “ _ Apollon. _ ”

 

He holds his hands up in defeat. “Alright, alright. I won’t say anything—yet,” Lance concedes, directing the last part of his statement at Keith while winking. The tale of Kolivan and the disastrous attempt to woo Antok will have to stay with him, for now.

 

Kolivan sighs, and rubs his temple in annoyance. “As much as it has been good to catch up, I’m afraid I must cut this short. I have meetings to attend. Hyakinthos, show Lord Apollon around if he so wishes. And don’t forget about what we discussed earlier.” He stands, stepping down from the throne. As he passes Lance, he stops. “It  _ was _ good to see you again, Lord Apollon.” The two of them clasp forearms for a moment in lieu of a hug—Kolivan’s never been the most touchy feely person—but Lance can see a twinkle in his dark eyes that’s reminiscent of his years with Kolivan in his youth.

 

“Likewise, Kolivan. I hope we can talk more soon.”

 

The emperor nods, and makes his way out of the room. The minute Kolivan is gone, Keith is gripping Lance’s arm so tight he’s afraid it’ll break.

 

“Ow ow ow ow—”

 

“What the  _ Styx _ was that?” Keith hisses, eyes narrowed angrily. 

 

Lance shakes his head in disbelief. “Uh-uh,  _ nope _ . This isn’t on me. You didn’t tell me you were a prince!”

 

“Well you didn’t tell me you were a god!” Keith exclaims, letting go of Lance’s arm to throw his hands up in frustration.

 

“Yes I did! Keith what the Styx?! I told you the first time we met!” Lance shouts, rubbing his arm. Oh Hades, he was most likely going to have a giant bruise later. He’d have to talk Aphrodite into letting him borrow some cream.

 

“How was I supposed to believe you then? You didn’t wave your hand and do your—your magic thing, or whatever!”

 

“Oh I don’t know Keith, it’s a little thing called  _ trusting people _ ,” Lance says dryly. He sighs, the fight draining from him as he watches Keith flinch back. “I’m sorry; that was a low blow.”

 

Keith nods tensely. “It’s whatever—doesn’t matter now,” he replies, voice tight. “Come on. Let’s go to the garden.”

 

Lance doesn’t protest as he’s dragged away.

 

ὑάκινθος

 

The air between them is still somewhat tense, but as far as Lance can tell, the walk to the garden had calmed both him and Keith. Though, Lance definitely won't be finding his way through the castle on his own anytime soon—Keith had been a less than helpful tour guide, and trying to remember all the turns they took made Lance's head spin. He'd have better luck navigating Daedalus’s labyrinth than this castle.

 

Lance doesn't really care about that right now though. Because the garden in front of him is  _ breathtaking _ . Demeter, Lance's ever hard to please aunt, would be proud. Flowers of all shapes and colors bloom everywhere, and trees stand around the edges of the garden, making it more like a grove. 

 

There is a small daïs towards one side of the garden, with stone pillars surrounding the edges of it. Lance can't see the what’s located in the center of the daïs, but if he knows Kolivan, it probably has a fire pit for burnt offerings to the gods. 

 

And located on the other side of the grove, closer to where Lance and Keith stand at the entrance, is a water fountain that really should be called a small pond. The taller back wall is made of various shades of brick, along with the lower walls of the fountain, which has its edges lined with white granite. There are two sets of pillars made of the same granite that line the edges of the fountain’s back wall, along with the top forming a sort of half dome. In front of the fountain's wall stands a statue of a woman holding a tipped vase, which has water trickling out into the the fountain's pool. Lance can't be quite sure, but he thinks the statue may be a depiction of Amphitrite, or one of the other 49 Nereids. The water in it is such a bright blue that Lance feels like he's staring into the eyes of Poseidon himself.

 

There are a few other fountains in the garden as well, but none are so ornate or gorgeous as the first. Some are smaller in size, designed to look like a short pillar with four faucets going around it that pour water into four bowls that jut out of the side of the pillar. And others are are slightly bigger than those, and are formed in the classic three tier design, with a statue of a winged cherub standing in the uppermost bowl.

 

As Lance looks around at the marvel that's this garden, he can see some of the flowers Keith had given him sprouting in the green grass, along with so many other types of flowers. It's beautiful. Lance has seen hundreds of beautiful places, from natural landscapes to shrines—and half of those had been in honor of him, but there's something about this grove that leaves Lance speechless. He thinks it's less the grove itself and more its connection to Keith that's making him feel this way.

 

“Keith… this is—”

 

Keith interrupts him, abruptly. “This used to be my mother's garden, before she left.”

 

And Lance knows how much it must have taken for Keith to tell him that.

 

“I'm not any good at gardening, but I try to help the servants with it when I can. I…it's stupid, but it makes me feel closer to her somehow.”

 

Lance steps closer to Keith and rests a hand on his shoulder gently. “It's not stupid. Whenever I miss my sister because we're too busy to visit, I'll go out at night and stare at the moon.”

 

Keith's eyes flick sideways to Lance's face, curious.

 

He smiles, a bit wryly. “I'm the god of the sun and my sister is the goddess of the moon. We kind of run on opposite schedules. She's usually busy with her hunters, anyway.”

 

Keith huffs softly. “I'd say I'm sorry but I know how empty that platitude is.”

 

Lance hums in agreement. “It's surprisingly lonely, being a god. You'd think with all the relatives and worshippers that one wouldn't be able to be lonely, but it makes it harder to find a genuine connection. Most mortals are so hung up on the fact that you're a deity that they either prostrate themselves and are too afraid to be who they actually are, or they seek to use you for personal gain.” He turns to look at Keith. “I think that's why I didn't try to prove who I was to you after that first attempt. I liked that you didn't know me as Apollon; that you weren't afraid to argue or spar with me. I'm sorry for hiding the truth from you, though. I realize now that it was wrong of me.”

 

Keith shakes his head, not breaking eye contact with Lance. “I did the same thing, though. I didn't tell you I was a prince, for the same reasons. It's not selfish to want someone to like you for you rather than for your status.” He emphasizes his words by grabbing onto Lance's hand and squeezing. “I'll forgive you, if you forgive me.”

 

And for the second time Lance is rendered speechless. He wants to find the words but suddenly he feels as mute as Echo. So Lance takes a page out of Keith's notebook, and sends a quick prayer up to Aphrodite before he moves. The next thing he knows is that he's kissing Keith, who has really soft lips, and isn't responding yet—and  _ oh gods, did I make a mistake Aphrodite you useless sister, oh gods oh gods _ —but then Keith's brain must kick him into action because he's wrapping his arms around Lance's neck and kissing back and Lance doesn't think he's ever had a kiss like this one in the thousands of years he's been alive. Lance would be content if he died kissing Keith, but dying is hard for gods so he'll have to settle for being alive to kiss Keith, which, honestly, isn't really settling at all. He can't be sure, but the sun feels like it got a little brighter or perhaps hotter, but the sun has never responded to Lance's emotions before. He cracks an eye open and— _ oh _ . He's glowing. Like, literally—Lance’s skin is glowing a soft gold, making him feel like a firefly in the night. Lance can’t ever recall this happening before, but that’s a problem for him to deal with later. Right now, all he cares about is the feeling of Keith’s lips pressed against his, their chests so close together that if either of them were to try to pull closer, Lance would fear that they’d end up merging into the eight-limbed humans from the old myths.

 

Too soon, Keith is pulling back and  _ wow _ , he’s gorgeous like this. His face is flushed, and lips are a swollen just-been-kissed red, while his hair is in disarray from Lance tangling his hands in it. Lance can’t help but stare.

 

The corner of Keith’s lips twitch. “Was that your way of saying all is forgiven,  _ Lord Apollon _ ?” he asks, voice dropping an octave, a bit breathless.

 

_ Oh gods _ , ok, Keith can never know how much hearing his name said like that affects Lance,  _ nope _ , nuh-uh. But based on the way Keith’s eyes are twinkling with mischief, he can already tell, just by looking at Lance’s face, which is probably beet red right now.

 

Lance nods in response, too afraid to speak. His voice would probably sound squeakier than the laughter of cherubs if he tries to talk.

 

Before he can gather the courage to verbally respond, they’re interrupted by a servant entering the garden. The servant glances nervously between the two of them, before stepping closer to Keith, who leans down to hear whatever it is they whisper.

 

The look on Keith’s face sours. “He’s here again? Did you tell him I’m unavailable?” 

 

The servant nods, saying “He said he’s willing to wait as long as it takes, sir.”

 

Keith sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Fine. Please tell him to wait in the throne room. I’ll be there shortly.”

 

The servant scurries off, leaving Lance and Keith alone again. Lance is the first to break the silence. “Sooooo, what was that all about?” he asks.

 

Keith shoots him an annoyed look, like he was hoping for Lance to leave it alone, but hah! As if. Lance is too curious for his own good sometimes. “A prince from a nearby territory is being annoyingly persistent in trying to gain my affections. I’d tell him to go to the crows, but Kolivan wants me to at least consider it. Plus, it probably wouldn’t do any good anyway; Lotor can be… Extremely tenacious, when he wants something.”

 

“Is that what Kolivan was being so cryptic about earlier?”

 

Keith nods. “Kolivan wouldn’t mind me turning down suitors, but Daibazaal could be a powerful ally if Marmora marries in, and since Kolivan doesn’t have any heirs but me…”

 

“You’re the one who’s stuck dealing with this,” Lance finishes.

 

“Mmm. Lotor’s a slimy bastard. Neither Kolivan or I trust him, but he wants me to get closer to Lotor to try and figure out his motive. It wouldn’t be so hard to do, but Lotor’s a creep and a master at manipulation. I don’t like being around him any longer than I have to.”

 

“That sounds terrible. I’m sorry.”

 

Keith snorts. “It’s not your fault.”

 

“Still, I’m sorry you’re in this situation.”

 

Keith cocks an eyebrow up. “Yeah, but if I wasn’t, would I have met you? I was in the meadow that first day to try and escape him.” He sighs again. “I need to go. I’ll have one of the servants show you out, if you need.”

 

Lance shakes his head. “It’s alright, I should be able to find my way out of here on my own.”  _ Lies. _ “Go.”

 

Keith turns to leave, but pauses, seeming to deliberate something. Lance doesn’t know what until Keith is stepping back towards him and kissing him softly. “One last kiss to tide us over until the next time.” He turns again, and exits the garden, leaving Lance alone.

 

Απόλλων

 

So. Lance  _ had _ intended to leave the garden and find his way out of the castle to go home, he really had. But, well, curiosity won the best of him again, so instead of doing that, he had followed Keith. Lance had trailed behind him from a safe enough distance that he was never noticed, and now he’s peering into the throne room from the hall, hidden behind a pillar.

 

Lance is too far to be able to hear anything distinct, other than the murmur of voices, but he can see Keith walk up to a man who’s standing facing the thrones. This must be Prince Lotor. Lotor’s hands are clasped behind his back, hidden for the most part by the long white hair that cascades down past his shoulders. Lance would be jealous of Lotor’s hair, because those locks are  _ luscious _ , but even without seeing his face, there’s something eerily familiar about Lotor… 

 

When Lotor turns to face Keith, Lance has to bite back a gasp. He knows him.

 

Zephyros. The god of the west wind.

 

Keith was right when he had called him a ‘slimy bastard’ earlier. Zephyros wasn’t always that bad, but Lance never liked dealing with him if he didn’t have to. Luckily for him, most business up on Olympus rarely deals with any of the four Anemoi.

 

Zephyros has a wife, if Lance remembers correctly. So why in the name of Hades is he pretending to be a prince and vying for Keith’s affection?

 

And  _ Styx _ —Lance has been too caught up in his thoughts so he didn’t notice Keith and Zephyros finish their conversation, and now Keith is exiting the room, facing where Lance hides. Lance quickly hides behind the pillar, waiting until he hears Keith’s footsteps fade away to relax.

 

_ Phew. Safe. _

 

He spoke too soon.

 

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the mighty Lord Apollon? Didn’t dear daddy Zeus ever tell you it was rude to spy?”

 

Lance jumps in surprise, whirling around to face the owner of the irritatingly smooth voice. “Zephyros,” he greets icily. “Or should I say,  _ Prince Lotor _ ?” Lance glares at him, and crosses his arms. “Why the Styx are you even here?”

 

Lotor smirks. “Tsk, tsk. Jealousy isn’t very becoming of you. And isn’t it obvious? I’m going to have Prince Hyakinthos’s hand in marriage. Don’t let him fool you otherwise.”

 

“As if he would marry someone like you,” Lance scoffs. “If I remember right, marriage is one of those things that kind of takes both people agreeing to it. You know, this little thing called consent? You can’t do with Hyakinthos like you did with Chloris. He’d have your head on a platter in a heartbeat if you so much as tried.”

 

“Oh I fully know the strength Hyakinthos is capable of. You sense it too, do you not? The fact that he has the blood of not one, but  _ two _ gods running through his veins?”

 

_ What. _ Lance is reeling, eyes blown wide open in shock. “How can that be possible? He can’t have two godly parents and still be mortal! You really expect me to believe that?”

 

“Ah, but if he were the child of two demigods, the offspring of a daughter of Hades and a son of Ares, then it is quite possible, I assure you.”

 

Well, Lance certainly didn’t see that coming. He had had an idea about Keith being related to Hades at least somewhat, but the connection to Ares is a surprise. The revelation about Keith’s parentage makes sense of a lot of things—his ability to wield Stygian iron, his prowess with a blade, his quick temper and ability to hold grudges—but he’s still shocked. And the information is coming from Zephyros, no less.

 

“How the Styx do  _ you _ know that?”

 

Zephyros shrugs. “I had one of my servants do some… reconnaissance before I made the decision to pursue Hyakinthos. You wouldn’t go into battle with no idea as to who your opponent was, would you?”

 

“So you spied on him and invaded his privacy,” Lance spits out bitterly. “I don’t know why I expected any less from you.”

 

“Call it whatever you like; it is of no concern to me. But know this, Apollon,” he says, leaning forward towards Lance, “Hyakinthos is  _ mine _ .”

 

Ζεφυρος

 

Well, Styx.

 

After Zephyros had hissed his warning, he had stalked off, out of the castle. Lance was left alone, standing awkwardly in the middle of the hall, to deal with this new information. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, but it wasn’t really important right then. He needed to find Keith. So when a servant had walked by, Lance stopped them, and had said frantically “find Prince Hyakinthos. Tell him I need to speak with him,  _ now _ . It’s urgent.”

 

The servant ran off, and now Lance is left pacing back and forth in the hallway, nervously biting at his nails. Keith shows up about ten minutes later, brows furrowed in concern.

 

“Lance? What are you still doing here? What’s wrong?”

 

It bursts out of Lance like water from a breaking dam. “Okay so I  _ may _ have followed you and I  _ may _ have peeked in on your conversation with Lotor but I didn’t hear anything, but I still shouldn’t have done it so I’m sorry but he caught me afterwards, and Lotor is  _ not _ who you think he is. He’s dangerous.”

 

Keith lifts an eyebrow up, seeming to say ‘ _ so? I already knew that. _ ’

 

“He’s a god! Lotor isn’t really a prince, he’s Zephyros, the god of the west wind. He’s latched onto you for some reason and spied on you before you even met him, and he’s creepily intent on marrying you even though he technically has a wife, which really, he  _ kidnapped _ her, but I don’t know how Chloris feels about it anymore and just—you need to stay away from him,  _ please _ ,” Lance finishes rambling, out of breath by the end.

 

Keith doesn’t reply for a moment. “...Alright.”

 

“Alright?”

 

He nods. “I trust you. You’ve screwed up a couple of times, but for some reason I still do. I don’t want to be around him anyway, so this is the perfect excuse.”

 

Lance sighs, his whole body sagging with relief. “Thank you. And I’m sorry again for following you. I know you probably have business that you need to attend to, so I’ll leave you to it. Tell Kolivan that I hope to see him again soon.”

 

Keith nods again, and parts with a “will do. See you soon, my lord,” winking before he walks away.

 

Lance is still too wired from his nerves to be flustered, but knowing that Keith is going to take his advice has calmed him some. He’s not sure what to do next, though it is almost night. Perhaps he’ll stay up and visit his sister as she rides by on her silver chariot.

 

{ It turns out Lance only  _ thought _ Keith was going to take his advice. In reality, Keith confronts Lotor the next day, doing the exact  _ opposite _ of what Lance had asked him to do, but really, Lance should have known better. He knows that Keith has very little impulse control.

 

Keith doesn’t bother to wait until Lotor stops speaking to cut him off, saying “cut the shit. I know who you really are, Zephyros. Consider this my official refusal of your proposal, or of  _ any _ type of alliance between Daibazaal and Marmora.” He pulls out his Stygian iron blade and presses it against Lotor’s neck, shoving him against a pillar. “I will  _ never _ be yours.”

 

And while he doesn’t show it, Lotor is seething on the inside, cursing Apollon’s every name. “Make no mistake, you’ll come to regret that decision, my little Prince. But have it your way, for now.” He smirks. “Apollon will tire of you soon enough yet.”

 

“Whatever you say,  _ Zephryos _ ,” Keith sneers, the name dripping like hot acid from his tongue, and he presses the blade a little harder against the wind god’s neck, not quite hard enough to break the skin, but enough to be a warning.

 

“Come now, there’s no reason to be so uncivil. We are, after all, of a higher breed, you and I.”

 

Keith pauses, his grip on his blade relaxing slightly. “What the hell is  _ that _ supposed to mean? I’m  _ nothing _ like you.” Keith’s face is pinched in confusion and anger, while Lotor’s smirk widens.

 

“Why don’t you ask your beloved Apollon that? He knows the answer as well as I.”

 

And in a flash, Lotor is moving his hand through the air, summoning a gust of wind to knock Keith backwards, his sword clattering to the floor as he stumbles.

 

“I shall see you soon, my little prince,” he says, and then Lotor’s gone, leaving no trace behind. }

 

ὑάκινθος

 

Keith doesn’t show up at the meadow for the next two days, and Lance would be worried—he still is actually, but Keith had left his traditional notes with flowers—purple pansies and yellow balsam blooms one day, and pink azaleas and laudanum flowers the next—so Lance knows that Keith isn’t missing because Zephyros went and kidnapped him, or something sinister like that. He also knows that Keith probably needs some time to himself, away from Lance, after everything that had happened the last time they were together. He still can’t fully believe it himself.

 

When Lance shows up to the meadow on the third day, Keith is there. He’s sitting upon a rock, back towards Lance, but he stands and turns around when he hears Lance approaching. Keith smiles softly at the sight of Lance, and Lance is about to smile back and wave, when Keith’s face falls into something grim.

 

“Is everything alright? Are you ok?”

 

Keith doesn’t answer Lance’s questions, asking one of his own instead. “What did Zephyros mean when he said you would know what he meant by saying that we were both ‘of a higher breed’?” His gaze is steely, eyes an unforgiving flint.

 

“What does…you talked to him?!” Lance cries. “Why the Styx would you do that?”

 

“It doesn’t matter. What. Did. He. Mean,” Keith repeats.

 

Lance throws his hands up in the air. “Of course it matters! You told me you’d stay away from him! He could have hurt you!”

 

Keith narrows his eyes in response, crossing his arms. “I can take him.”

 

“Keith, Hyakinthos, my love,  _ no. _ He is a GOD. You’re strong as Hell, but don’t tempt the Fates like that.” He sighs, and rubs his hand down his face. “As for what he meant, it was Zephyros on his superiority schtick again; he absolutely hates mortals.”

 

“But  _ I’m _ a mortal.”

 

And now Lance winces. “Yeaaahh, about that… In his spying on you, Zephyros uncovered some…information about your parentage. You’re not as mortal as you thought, babe. Your parents were both demigods. A daughter of Hades and a son of Ares, apparently.”

 

Keith’s eyes widen. “What.”

 

“Surprise?” Lance says, weakly smiling. “I didn’t intentionally keep it from you, I swear that on the river Styx. I just sort of forgot.”

 

“What the Hell, Lance? You know how I feel about learning who my parents were,” Keith practically shouts, glaring again.

 

“I know, I know. I’m sorry! I wanted to tell you when I found out, but in my panic it slipped my mind! I was more concerned about you and Zephyros.”

 

“You keep saying that an awful lot lately, you know,” he replies flatly.

 

“Because I  _ am _ .” Lance sighs, voice becoming morose. “I keep screwing up and I can’t apologize enough. I can only pray that you’ll forgive me, because I really don’t want to lose you. I’ve probably had dozens upon dozens of lovers over the years, but none that I’ve loved like you.” He laughs self deprecatingly, running a hand through his hair. “Because  _ gods _ Keith, I love you, so much, and I’m scared that one day you’ll get tired of me, or that I’ll be forced to face the fact that you’re not immortal and will eventually die while I’ll live forever, constantly mourning you, but I can’t stop. I can’t stop loving you, and I don’t want to, no matter how much I should.”

 

And now Keith is the one left unable to speak, much like Lance was all those days ago in the garden. The anger on Keith’s face shifts to stunned, eyes filling with an indescribable emotion. His face then shifts into the ever-familiar determined expression that Lance is so used to seeing on Keith, before Keith grinds out “you’re insufferable a third of the time, and vexing, and a show-off, but may the gods curse my soul if I don’t love you anyway.”

 

Before Lance has a chance to respond, because really,  _ how does one respond to that _ , Keith is marching forward and gripping Lance’s face in his hands, kissing him with a ferocity that only Keith can express. Keith is kissing Lance like a dying man looking at the sun for the last time, and Lance is a man who can’t swim, drowning in an ocean he doesn’t ever want to escape. It’s fiery and intense and Lance can tell Keith is trying to pour everything he can’t say into the kiss, but Lance thinks Keith is doing a better job at embodying himself. Well, actually, Lance can’t really think much at all, but if he could, that’s what he would be thinking. Right now he’s too focused on the feeling of Keith pressed against him and the inexplicable joy of knowing that the one you love loves you back. He tries his best to convey everything he’s feeling into the kiss as well, his regret and his sorrow and his love, and his hands grip tighter to the material of Keith’s toga where they rest at his hips.

 

Eventually, this kiss slows into something softer, gentler, like leaves rustling in the spring breeze. They pull away, and Lance lets his head tilt down until his forehead is touching Keith's. Keith's hands are still holding Lance's face, though his grip is looser now, one thumb gently running back and forth over Lance's cheekbone. The two softly stare at each other, not saying anything, simply basking in the silent presence of the other. 

 

Keith is the first to break the silence.

 

“It's hard for me to say, but I do, you know? Love you.” His tone matches the fond expression on his face. “You’ll have to work to earn back some of my trust, but that doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

 

“I’ll do whatever it takes to be worthy of your trust,” Lance vows, lifting one hand up to cover Keith’s. “I swear it on the River Styx.”

 

It’s not a light vow to be made. Swearing upon the River Styx is the highest oath one can take, as close to unbreakable as one can get. If one does not fulfil their oath or breaks it, they will face immeasurable pain that not even the gods can withstand. Taking this vow shows just how serious Lance is about Keith and making things right. 

 

Judging by the way Keith’s eyes shine with awe and his lips part in surprise, he understands the depth of what this means.

 

“Oh  _ my, _ well isn’t that sweet?” a voice that Lance had hoped he would never have to hear again booms across the field, mockingly slow applause accompanying it.

 

Keith whirls around, drawing his bronze sword, and assumes a guarded stance. Lance summons his golden bow, drawing an arrow from his quiver and nocks it, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

 

“ _ Lotor _ ,” Keith spits, full of rage. “Why are you here?”

 

Zephyros raises a brow. “I can’t visit an old friend? As lovely as it is to see you again, my dear Hyakinthos, my business lies with Apollon.”

 

That sets Lance on edge. Whatever this is about cannot be good. “What do you want?” he asks, wary.

 

Zephyros smirks, and Lance feels like he's somehow fallen into a trap already.

 

“I've come here to challenge you, Apollon, to a competition.”

 

Lance bites back a sigh, knowing what the answer will be before he even answers the question. “And what's the prize for your so-called competition?”

 

Zephyros looks like the cat that caught the canary, smug and self-satisfied. “Prince Hyakinthos’s affections—nothing more, and nothing less.”

 

Keith bristles at this. “My feelings aren't some prize to be won, you piece of  _ kapros _ .” 

 

And Lance agrees with Keith, he really does, but he also knows that if he refuses, things will likely only get worse. Plus, Lance's competitive streak can't help but want to rise to the challenge. That doesn't stop him from pausing to think it over.

 

“Come now Apollon, it's only to be a simple discus throwing competition. Surely you aren't afraid of losing  _ that _ much,” Zephyros goads.

 

Lance can’t resist.

 

“I accept your challenge, Zephyros,” he declares, sounding far more confident than he actually feels.

 

Keith whips his head around to stare at Lance. “Lance, what the Hell?” he asks incredulously. 

 

Lance hisses back “just shut up and trust me.” He unnocks his arrow and puts it back into his quiver. Stepping in front of Keith, he says to Zephyros “how will the winner be determined?”

 

“The winner will be determined by cumulative distance. Each competitor will have three disci, and whoever has the furthest total distance after all six disci have been thrown will have won.”

 

Lance nods once in acknowledgement. “Alright. It’s settled then.”

 

Zephyros’s lips slowly curl up even further. “Then we shall begin.”

 

Απόλλων

 

Zephyros goes first.

 

Now, Lance is no discus throwing expert, but Zephyros is pretty good—although Lance can’t tell if he’s using any of his wind powers to ‘assist’ him or not. Soon enough, he’s thrown all three of his disci, and it’s Lance’s turn.

 

He gulps.

 

Alright. He can do this. All it is is just throwing some simple discs, no big deal, right? Zephyros may be good, but Lance will just have to be better.

 

For Keith.

 

Lance trades places with Zephyros from where he and Keith had been standing to the side, and rolls his shoulders, trying to relax. He bends down to pick up his first discus, and assumes his position.

 

He draws his arm in, and closes his eyes.

 

A deep breath in.

 

Hold.

 

And  _ release _ .

 

Lance opens his eyes to see his discus flying through the air, moving so fast it’s a blur. It finally lands, falling to the ground further than where Zephryos’s first and second disci had landed. He sighs in relief, and mentally sends a quick thank you up to Zeus.

 

He picks up his second discus, and repeats. This one flys and falls just a hair ahead of Zephryos’s third and furthest had landed.

 

Lance internally cheers.  _ Yes, take that Zephyros. _ He quickly glances over to where Keith and Zephyros are standing, and Keith’s fists are clenched in apprehension, but his face is shining with pride for Lance. Zephyros, meanwhile, looks livid. Lance can tell from even where he stands that Zephyros is grinding his teeth in frustration.

 

But that’s not Lance’s concern. He just has to throw his last discus at least as far as his first one, and he’ll have won. He and Keith will be free from Zephyros.

 

He shoots a quick smile to Keith, and then returns his focus to the task at hand. His last and final discus is in his hand. Lance murmurs a quick prayer, then  _ throws _ .

 

It’s flying strongly.

 

Lance is going to win.

 

He starts to turn to look at Keith again, and that’s when everything starts going wrong.

 

The breeze, which had been so light before that it was almost non-existent, picks up heavily. It throws the discus off course, and Lance feels like he’s watching the horror unfold in slow motion.

 

He’s Apollon, one of the twelve Olympians. He should be able to stop this. But wind isn’t in his domain, and he’s powerless to prevent what happens.

 

The discus is now flying in the direction of where Keith and Zephyros stand, and Lance shouts in terror as the discus strikes Keith in the head, causing him to crumple to the ground.

 

He screams.

 

“ _ HYAKINTHOS! _ ”

 

Lance runs to Keith’s side and kneels beside him. The discus had hit Keith near his temple, and now there’s a deep gash there, bleeding profusely. Keith is deathly pale, and unresponsive as Lance pulls Keith’s torso onto his lap and cradles him in his arms. 

 

_ No no no no no nonononononononono. _

 

_ Why isn’t he responding? _

 

“Keith,  _ please _ , wake up. You can’t leave me, not like this. I need you,” Lance chokes out between sobs. “My love,  _ please. Keith _ . Why aren’t you waking up?” He’s pleading as tears run down his face and drip on Keith’s, who’s as limp as a dying flower.

 

Wait.

 

_ I’m the god of healing. I can fix this! _

 

Lance hovers his palm over the gash in Keith’s head and concentrates, summoning his healing ability. The area between his hand and Keith’s head glows a soft gold, and Lance watches as the skin slowly knits back together. It’s working! _ Yes! _ But he spoke too soon. When he pulls his hand away, the wound starts reappearing, blood flowing anew.

 

_ No. Oh gods why? Why can’t I fix this? What’s wrong with me? _

 

He tries again, and again, but it yields the same result every time. Eventually, the skin stops even bothering to heal and just remains an open, ghastly wound.

 

Lance is trembling from his sobs and the loss of energy that using his healing abilities requires. He can feel himself weakening, but he can’t bring himself to even begin to care. Not when Keith won’t wake up.

 

Zephyros, who Lance had almost forgotten was standing there, chuckles. It's not a happy sound. He starts quietly at first, but it grows into maniacal cackling. It'd sound gleeful, were it not for the desperation that it's tinged with, and its unhinged quality.

 

“How do you like that,  _ Apollon? _ Not so much of a god are you now?”

 

Lance whips his head around and glares at Zephyros. “YOU BASTARD!” he yells, “if Zeus won’t strike you down where you stand then I  _ will _ .” He’s thankful that his voice remains steady, for as he rises, making sure to grab Keith’s xyili, his limbs tremble from exertion and rage. Apollon may not be able to defeat Zephyros with his arrows, but using Hyakinthos’s blade seems like poetic justice. 

 

Zephyros grins, a sick, twisted smile that shows far too many teeth to be truly gleeful. “Come now, we both know that won’t happen. But you can certainly try. Daddy dearest won’t protect you here.”

 

His voice is dripping with condescension and Apollon sees red. He rushes towards Zephyros, stygian iron poised to strike, and Zephyros is just standing there, chin tilted up in arrogance and arms spread wide, leaving himself open and undefended.

 

It’s too easy. Apollon should know better than to attempt to attack an enemy who is seemingly defenseless. But he’s consumed by rage, feels like he’s burning in Ares’s fires of war. Zephyros  _ won’t _ get away with this.

 

He moves to strike. Goes for the jugular. The minute the blade nicks his skin, Apollon will have won. But he doesn’t get that far. There’s a flash of movement too fast for Apollon to track, and then there’s the ringing sound of blades clashing together. A beat. Apollon pulls back to see Zephyros defending himself with his sword, long and straight and gleaming like it’s never seen a day of use. He thrusts forward yet again, and Zephyros parries easily. Their blades screech, singing as they scrape against each other. Apollon leans in, putting more force behind his attack. It’s useless. Zephyros simply counters with more force as well. Overwhelmingly so. His blade is closer to Apollon’s face than Apollon’s blade is to his. Apollon can practically taste the iron from how close it is.

 

“How does it feel, to know you are the cause of death of whom you hold dearest? To have your hands stained red and not be able to wash them of the blood that  _ you _ spilled?”

 

Apollon’s mouth twists down in frustration. “Shut up! You’re the one that caused this!”

 

Zephyros tilts his head, cooing mockingly. “Oh,  _ far _ from it. But you’ll come to accept your role with time. We’re more alike than you think, you and I. I caused the death of my mother, you see. I was the last born of my siblings, and my mother, may Astraeus’s soul rest in peace, couldn’t handle it, the poor thing. Four children was just too much for her. She died, mere minutes after I was born. I’ve had to grapple with the fact ever since. And now you, too, will know what it is like.”

 

“I said. Shut. UP!” Apollon roars, forcing his blade up and to the side, out of the deadlock he’s been stuck in. “You know  _ nothing _ !” He swings forward. “ _ I—” _ clash. “ _ Loved—” _ a thrust. “ _ Hyakinthos—” _  clash. “ _ And you—” _ he lunges deep. “ _ KILLED HIM!” _

 

_ SHIIIING! _

 

Zephyros’s sword clatters to the ground, out of his hand. Apollon’s chest is heaving with exhaustion, but the sight of Zephyros daring to smirk, to look so pleased at this outcome, fuels him. He steps forward, pressing the tip of Keith’s dagger to the wind god’s neck.

 

“You will  _ never _ understand, because  _ you _ are a flagitious piece of  _ shit _ who can’t even begin to understand what it’s like to actually love someone other than yourself,” Apollon hisses. He applies more pressure, not yet breaking the skin.

 

“Perhaps so, from your perspective. But Hyakinthos held my affections all the same.” The smirk on Zephyros’s face grows wider. “If you’re planning to kill me, you’ll have to try a little harder than this.  _ Go on _ ,” he goads. “ _ Do it. _ Take your revenge for your fallen love.  _ Avenge _ him. Killing me won’t bring him back.”

 

Apollon glares, and his hand shakes where he holds it.

 

“Don’t be a coward, Apollon.  _ Do it. _ ”

 

And oh, Apollon wants to so bad. His blood is positively singing at the idea. Every fiber of his being is yelling at him to avenge Keith, to make Zephyros pay for what he’s done. A life for a life, after all. But still. He hesitates. There’s some part of him that whispers  _ no, this is not the way. Your hands are meant for healing and creation, not death and destruction. If you do this, there is no going back. _

 

As Apollon is dealing with this inner turmoil, of revenge vs. morality, of justice vs. mercy, of what will the Fates decide, Zephyros continues to taunt him.

 

“Come on now. I’m right here. Do it, Apollon.  _ KILL ME! _ ”

 

Apollon shouts, fed up with all the conflict and the voices echoing in his head, and raises his arm high, dagger gripped tightly in his fist. He clenches his eyes shut and takes the plunge, aiming for Zephyros’s chest.

 

_ Fuck _ the Fates and whatever his father will have to say about this. He makes his own decisions. 

 

Just one tiny cut. That’s all it will take for the blade to absorb Zephyros’s soul, leaving his body an empty husk.

 

_ WHACK! _

 

Something hard hits Apollon’s hand, causing it to spasm and the dagger to fall to the ground.

 

Apollon ignores the sound of Zephyros laughing and twists his head around to the side that the projectile came from.

 

A man, probably not much taller than Apollon himself, stands some 50 meters away. He holds a bow, and has one arm reaching behind him, preparing to nock another arrow. Feathered wings spread out from his back, and when Apollon squints, he can make out sandy hair and a familiar face.

 

Eros.

 

“What the Styx do you think you’re doing?” Apollon yells out. “I was going to kill him!”

 

Eros shakes his head, and steps closer. “I can’t let you do that Apollon.”

 

“And why the Hades not?!”

 

The winged-man sighs. “You know why not as well as I do. Zephyros is protected because his actions were borne out of true affections.”

 

“‘True affections.’ ‘True affections’? Are you kidding me?!” Apollon’s voice raises with every word and he’s stepped away from Zephyros to move closer to Eros. “His so-called ‘affections’ were genuine, my ass! He wouldn’t have killed Hyakinthos if they were!”

 

“ _ Apollon! _ ” Eros snaps. “I sympathize with you, I truly do. But his death has not yet been writ by the Fates. Don’t make this harder on yourself.” His eyes, the amber of which is normally so open and inviting, are as cold and unforgiving as the depths of Tartarus. 

 

Apollon stares back, unyielding in his determination. But his resolve soon crumbles. He sighs, and his whole body sags with it. “Fine. Have it your way. But if Zeus asks where I am, let him know that while he doesn’t have to worry about summoning Helios, I don’t plan on returning to Olympus anytime soon.” Eros nods in acknowledgement, and moves to grab onto Zephyros. With a few beats of Eros’s wings, they’re gone. 

 

Leaving Apollon alone with Hyakinthos’s body. 

 

He stumbles over to where he lies, and sinks into a kneel at his side. Tears start running down his face anew and he clutches onto Hyakinthos’s hand _ — _ it’s cold, so so cold _ — _ as the sobs rack his body.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so so  _ so sorry _ ,” Apollon moans, anguished. “I never wanted this to happen. I should’ve known better. But I let my pride and insecurities get the best of me.  _ Keith— _ ” he chokes. “I would pull down every star in the sky and risk my sister’s wrath if it meant I got to see you open your eyes again.” Apollon gives a weak laugh. “But I know that will never happen. The Fates have never been fond of me. Part of me is selfish, and hopes you’ll choose reincarnation once Charon delivers you beyond the doors of death, but I hope for your sake you choose eternity in Elysium. You deserve to be happy and at peace.”

 

He doesn’t notice at first, but his tears are falling onto Hyakinthos, mingling with the spilt blood. There’s a faint glow and Apollon watches in awe as flowers begin to grow where the two liquids have touched. They grow slowly, revealing themselves to be tall, vertical flowers with thick stems. As the buds bloom, Apollon notices they’re a shade of purple that Keith’s eyes were in the moonlight. They’re gorgeous, like none he’s ever seen before. Eventually, there’s so many that they cover Keith’s corpse, burying him in a mosaic of green and violet. Apollon has to let go of and back away from him to avoid being covered as well. He shakily wipes his eyes, lips curling up sadly. “ _ Thank you _ ,” he says softly to the flowers. Apollon doesn’t know what the flowers are called, if they even have a name, but he thinks he’ll call them 

 

“Hyacinths. After the one you guard so dearly.”

 

Apollon is tired, weary down to his bones. It takes all he has for him to not lie down here and join Hyakinthos for a few centuries. But he has his duties to take care of, and more importantly, he needs to let Kolivan know what’s become of his nephew. It’s not a task he’s looking forward to. But it must be done. He forces himself to stand, and with a final glance at where his lover is buried, he walks off.

 

“Goodbye Hyakinthos, my love. May we meet in another life.”

 

Ζεφυρος

 

_ Several millennia and some centuries later…  _

 

“I’ve got a grande caramel frappe with extra caramel!”

 

Apollon looks up from where he sits in the corner, but it’s not his drink. He still has to wait. He’s currently sitting at one of the back corner tables in Starbucks, scribbling music notes in a notebook in a half-assed attempt at composing a song. It hasn’t been going well so far. But Apollon thinks coffee might help.  _ Gods _ , coffee has to be one of his favorite mortal inventions to come out of the past few centuries. There’s just so many ways to drink it, and, well, he does feel a little bad for the baristas who have to make his drink, but sue him for having a bit of a sweet tooth. If Apollon could find whoever the genius behind the recipe for a butterbeer latte is, he’d grant them any wish they ask. 

 

He looks back down at his notebook and sighs. Music hasn’t been coming to him easily lately—or for years, if he’s being entirely honest. Yes, sure, he’s inspired many mortals who’ve gone on to become some of the greats and are considered legendary (Mozart, Prince, Madonna, Beyonce… just to name a few), but when it comes to writing his own music, he’s been… A little lacking in the inspiration department. Even wandering the world and watching it evolve hasn’t helped. If anything, that’s just stumped him even more. Seeing things come and go, bloom then wilt, live and then die, it’s all a little morbidly repetitive after a while. Normally, taking a lover would help get him out of his slump, inspire him enough to write at least one song. And he has composed a few over the years, but the amount of songs he’s written compared to the number of lovers he’s had… It’s insurmountable. Nobody has truly caused a spark in him and made him light up. No one, not since Hyakinthos. It’s not that he hasn’t loved since then, because he has. It took him time, but Apollon learned how to open up and let himself be vulnerable and to care about another person again. But no one that he’s met could have ever held a candle to what Hyakinthos made him feel. Apollon’s learned to accept that, to be at peace with it. He’s one of few who was lucky enough to have a great love, when most can spend their lives searching for but never finding it. He’s not so arrogant anymore to assume that he’ll have more than one. Hyakinthos was enough. But  _ damn _ , if it doesn’t get a little tiring and lonely sometimes.

 

Apollon’s pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of the barista calling out another drink.

 

“Venti hot latte with caramel, cinnamon dolce, and toffee nut for Lance!”

 

That’s his drink. He stands and makes his way to the counter to grab it. As he nears, he can hear the barista mutter “damn, someone actually drinks that sweet shit? Do they even have any teeth left?”

 

Apollon’s retorting back before he can think about it.

 

“Yes, I do drink ‘that sweet shit’. And my teeth are perfectly fine,  _ thank _ you very much.” He flashes his pearly whites in what Aphrodite calls his ‘insta worthy smile’. “See?” Apollon almost drops his drink when he sees who he’s sassing.

 

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, buddy,” the barista drawls dryly.

 

He’s too shocked to try and think of a comeback. “Keith… ?” His voice comes out in a hesitant whisper, as if he’s afraid that if he’s too loud, what he’s seeing will disappear.

 

The barista raises an eyebrow. “...Yes? Is there something I can help you with? Actually—how the hell do you know my name?” He crosses his arms, scowling as he waits for an explanation.

 

Apollon sputters, panicking and trying to think of a way to explain. He glances around frantically for anything that could help him. “I—uh—”  _ bingo. _ “It’s on your nametag!”

 

Keith looks down at his apron, as if he forgot that there’s a small plaque with his name scrawled on it in cramped handwriting. “Oh, right.” He seems to buy Apollon’s hasty excuse, which thank Zeus for small mercies, but now Apollon is internally panicking because he doesn’t know what to say. He’s imagined this scenario a thousand times over, yet for the life of him, he doesn’t know how to continue. But he can’t let this conversation end—can’t let this opportunity slip away.

 

“I’m, uh, Lance,” he says, sticking out his hand for a handshake. 

 

Keith smirks. “I know.”

 

“Wh— _ how _ ?”

 

He gestures towards the drink in Apollon’s hand. “It’s on your cup,” he answers, smug at the role reversal.

 

Apollon pulls his unshaken hand back and scratches the back of his head, laughing nervously. “Right. I guess you got me there…”  _ Damnit _ , why are words failing him now? He can’t even think of a pun or a pick-up line! How is he supposed to be able to charm Keith into a date? Oh gods, what would they even do on a date? Apollon has no clue what this Keith likes, and even if he is the same as Hyakinthos, he doesn’t think combat competitions are considered date material anymore. Maybe he should ask him to coffee… ? Wait no Styx, he  _ works _ at a coffee shop, Apollon you utter buffoon, you can’t ask him to go for coffee! What do mortals like doing for dates this day-and-age?

 

While Apollon’s too busy being caught up in his inner turmoil, Keith steps to the bakery case, grabbing something and shoving it into one of the paper bags the store uses for food. He pulls out a sharpie from his apron’s pocket and hastily scribbles something onto the bag. 

 

“Here.”

 

Apollon snaps out of his musings to see Keith holding a bakery bag in front of his face.

 

“I didn’t order anything else… ?” he asks, confused. He takes the bag anyway though, peering inside. It’s a sugar cookie in the shape of a flower, with purple icing. 

 

“Yeah, but you were taking so long to figure out a way to ask for my number that it was getting a little pathetic. I figured this would be faster. It’s on the house, by the way. Now, can you move? I actually have a job to get back to.”

 

Lance flushes at Keith’s brusque statement, but at the mention of his number, he looks at the outside of the bag and finds it. He doesn’t know how he missed it in the first place.

 

**206-xxx-xxxx**

**Don’t lose this, sweet shit boy ;)**

 

Warmth blooms inside his chest, and he clutches the bag tightly. “Thanks, and uh, yeah of course. Sorry.” He starts to head back to his seat, but turns back around after a few steps. “Keith! What time do you—”

 

“My shift ends at 5.”

 

Lances nods to himself, mouth silently repeating ‘5’. He can’t stop smiling to himself as he sits back down in his corner spot. His latte may not be that warm anymore, but it’s alright. He’s warm enough for the both of them. As he puts his pen back to paper, marveling at the coincidence and the sheer miracle of meeting Keith again, he finds himself wondering if maybe the Fates don’t hate him that much after all.

**Author's Note:**

> i started this fic during the summer this year, but i got to the second to last scene & just. gave up. writing the last two scenes, especially the end one, was like pulling fucking teeth. it just did Not want to write itself.  
> if ur curious abt what any of the flowers i described are/mean, here's a google doc i used for notes on things related to this fic! https://docs.google.com/document/d/1D3ICDeAH0qJZlh8IWTFsB_OtUtVMqN68jJJZqyMHjfc/edit?usp=sharing  
> there's also a link to a human kolivan piece of art in there, that i found after i wrote my description of him & was looking at pics of him to make sure i didn't miss any details lol. i saw it and was like AYYY SAME HAT.   
> also the drink that lance orders at the end is a real drink & ive had it before! the last time i ordered it, i did it over the app, and apparently the baristas thought my order was a joke bc of the amount of syrups in it. :) lmao.  
> idk why im even mentioning this?? apparently ppl don't rly read these??? welp. oh well.
> 
> come ramble with me abt nerd shit on twitter! @ GALRAAKEITH   
> also if u leave a comment on this u will earn my undying devotion & a cookie. pls.


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